Seven Will Out: A Renaissance Revel (16 page)

“What was that?” I asked.

“What any woman who was anybody did in the Tudor era when she was facing a crisis.”

I recalled all I had heard in this place so far that night.

“Amy! You don’t mean—”

Chapter Forty-Three

Keep Calm, Rest Still, and Call Cecil

I attempted to picture the meeting of the two minds that my surmise was painting for me. A long, Duck Dynasty beard figured prominently.

“It must surely be obvious to you, Dolly,” Amy said, putting an end to my reverie. “I consulted Cecil.”

“William Cecil, at that early point in the Elizabethan game,” I said, stating the obvious, perhaps, but wanting to keep it as accurate as possible. His son, Robert Cecil, would not have been of an advice-giving age until much later on.

“Correct, Dolly.”

“Wouldn’t a physician have been more appropriate, Amy?”

“Not for the idea that I was brewing, Dolly—the idea that Cecil helped me bring to fruition.”

“So you formulated an idea on you own before even consulting Cecil! That was enterprising of you. How did you manage such advanced planning, with things such as life and death on your mind?”

“The country life I loved so much came to my service, Dolly.”

“You were imbued with inspiration as you sat soaking in the sweet air of the English countryside?”

“No. I happened to be out near the paddock when I saw one of our horses, sickly and old, being led off to the knacker’s yard.”

“Oh, my,” I said, with trepidation. I sensed that things were about to get “of the earth, earthy.”

“I guess I can assume what this sight suggested to you, Amy, considering your condition.”

“Never assume, Dolly. When you assume,” Douglas reminded me, “you make an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me.’”

I thought this clever of Douglas, considering that the letter
U
was not in consistent use in the English language back in her day.

“‘Never assume’ is excellent general advice, Douglas,” Amy said. “However, in this case, Dolly assumes correctly, or at least, I assume as much myself.”

“Never assume, Amy,” Douglas repeated. “Because when you assume—”

“Enough of it, Douglas!” said Lettice. “Get on with your story, Amy. Time is wasting, and we’ve still got me and Douglas with our tales to tell.”

“Of course,” said Amy indulgently. “I watched that decrepit horse being led off, and at first I thought, ‘Poor creature.’ Then I noticed the hang of its head, the lack of luster of its coat, its guarded movements. Soon the animal would be out of its misery, and the knacker would make sure that its carcass was put to good use. Surely it was the most comfortable and most utilitarian of all possible fates for that horse. What a blessing it would be, I thought, if I could orchestrate my own end to be that expeditious and constructive.”

“You country folk are nothing if not practical minded!” I said.

“Well, Cecil was pretty practical minded too,” said Amy, delivering a top-ten contender—excuse the oxymoron—for the most over-the-top understatement of Tudor history.

“So what did your horse sense, if you will pardon the pun, come up with, Amy? And what did Cecil’s practicality bring to it?”

“I was able to discreetly summon Cecil to the country, and he readily appeared, incognito, of course. He arrived at Cumnor Place in the dead of night for a flying visit. His words were few, at first; in fact, he even shed a tear or two. I’m afraid I was looking pretty ill by then, and my looks saddened him.”

“I don’t think many saw Cecil’s sensitive side, Amy. I suppose in a way, that was quite a privilege.”

“‘My dear Amy,’ the man said to me, taking my hand gently, ‘it is obvious you are not long for this world. You are suffering, aren’t you?’”

I acknowledged I was. Cecil then got right to the point. He asked me if I wished to end my suffering. I admitted readily that I did. Cecil then said that he knew just the man to entrust the necessary pharmaceutics to. I squeezed Cecil’s hand in gratitude for his perspicacity and efficiency. But Cecil proved himself to be even more efficient still.”

“How, Amy?”

“By saying what he said next. ‘That,’ Cecil said, ‘is not the only reason you contacted me, I am sure, Amy. Getting poisons and physics out here in the country is no great challenge with witches and wise women around every corner, brewing herbs. You didn’t get the number one political mind in Europe down here in the dead of night just to get you a cyanide tablet.’”

“Not the humblest of men, was he?” I said.

“Perhaps not, Dolly,” Amy replied. “But the man nailed my other reason for requesting his services pretty much instantly.”

“Cecil got the scoop in one fell swoop! What did he say to you about that, Amy?” I asked.

“He said, ‘Amy, you want to politicize your death, don’t you? You want to make it matter. You want to make it count. I can help you to do that, to make your death significant, important, and effective for England—and for the queen—as well as brief and painless for yourself. Leave it to me, Amy. All will be as smooth as silk, if you just await my directions and follow them to the letter when you receive them.’”

“Which you did, Amy?” I inquired.

“Which I did,” she affirmed.

“Did you ever see Cecil again?” I asked.

“Yes, I did see Cecil again a few days later, when he returned to Cumnor Place to deliver instructions and supplies personally. He was reluctant to entrust the supplies to a messenger or to commit the instructions to paper. He did not tarry long. He brought with him only a small pouch of powder and a calendar of days.”

“Cecil was a man who knew how to travel light,” I commented. “I can guess what that pouch of powder was. But what was Cecil doing with a calendar?”

“He knew,” Amy said, “that the feast of Harvest Home was imminent and that in the country, it was celebrated with a festival or fair. He brought the calendar so that I could circle for him the day of the fair that year.”

“Which was September 8, 1560?” I conjectured.

“Yes, Dolly, and a Sunday it was too. Cecil told me to empty the house on that day; to send all the residents, staff, and servants to the fair in Abingdon.”

“There were, were there not, two ladies who would not play ball when the time came? Mrs. Owen and Mrs. Oddingsells, if I remember correctly.”

“You are correct as to their names but not as to their not playing ball. Their presence, you see, was part of the plan.”

Chapter Forty-Four

The Pair Who Missed the Fair, or Of Potions and Emotions

“So Cecil had you empty the house except for Mrs. Owen and Mrs. Oddingsells. What was their role in the plan, Amy?”

“Trusted henchmen.”

“Henchwomen, surely.”

“‘Trusted’ is the operative word for their role, Dolly. They were needed to carry out the part of the plan that followed my demise. They were both old and faithful servants, countrywomen plain and true, who could accept and work with the realities of the plan. I knew I needn’t worry about flights of fancy or any suggestibility or sentimentality leading them from the course of their duties as my death transpired. Like me, they were patriots. They understood the importance of the operation.”

“Tell on, Amy.”

“Cecil instructed me to take the powder he’d provided as soon after the house was vacated as I could on the day of the fair. It was, of course, the poison that would bring relief to my ailing body. All I had to do was stir it into a beverage and swallow it. He assured me its effects would be instantaneous and that within moments, all would be over.”

“And did it turn out that way for you?” I asked, holding my breath as I waited to hear her response. I genuinely liked Amy
and hated to think that she might have suffered at the hands of the “sure physician, death.”

“It was, as Cecil promised, as smooth as silk. A little burp, a little rumbling in the tummy, and a slight weakness in the knees are all I remember prior to moving toward the light that took me out of one world and into the next.”

I do think there is mettle in death, which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying
, I quoted silently to myself, relieved that death—and Cecil—had dealt so gently with Amy.

“As advised by Cecil, I was alone in my chamber and behind a closed door at the time of my death. Oddingsells and Owen were instructed to come into the chamber about twenty minutes after I had closed myself into it with the potion. Both were warned that they would find me dead upon entering. They had functioned as my maids over the past few months; they knew the extent of my cancerous illness and of the suffering that immediate death would spare me from.”

“It must have been difficult for you, Amy,” I said, “to find the courage, all alone, to take that poison when the time came.”

“The emptiness of Cumnor House that day made for a fine environment for prayer, Dolly. I went down on my knees and prayed for courage, deliverance, and the desired outcome shortly before I retired to my chamber and took the potion.”

“Mrs. Oddingsells listened to you pray, or perhaps, overheard you praying, didn’t she, Amy?”

“No, Dolly. She prayed with me. It did me good to have a trusted friend by my side during that final prayer.”

I’d gotten it wrong again but was glad to hear that Amy had had some gal power behind her in her final extremity.

“I am remembering, Amy, what Mrs. Oddingsells said when she was questioned about your death: ‘I myself have heard her pray to God to deliver her from desperation.’ That would have about summed up what happened, in all honesty, without giving anything away. She also said that if you were judged evilly because of her words, she was sorry she had ever said them.”

“That sounds like Mrs. Oddingsells. Honest, efficient, and with the kind of country sense and integrity needed to pull the wool over the eyes of the more sophisticated minds of the court without telling an outright lie. Just the person to do what had to be done after I did my part and dispatched myself to my maker in the empty house.”

I awaited with interest the lowdown on the Owen and Oddingsells show. I fancied it would be something like
Mission Impossible
. But really, it was just a case of two fine country gals proving “by wit, worth in simplicity.”

Chapter Forty-Five

Of Empty Houses That Haunt Absent Spouses

“Mrs. Owen was discreet but not as old and trusted a friend as Mrs. Oddingsells,” Amy said, continuing her tale. “Owen kept lookout for the enterprise. We emphasized to her how important it was for security to be airtight for the sake of myself, queen, and country. Mrs. Owen loved to feel important. She was more than happy to patrol the perimeter of the house and to take action if anyone returned to the house at an inopportune moment. As I learned after I crossed the bar, none had.”

“So, having prayed your last, you retired to your chamber with your pouch of powder. Mrs. Oddingsells waited faithfully without, and Mrs. Owen did security rounds. Twenty minutes later, they opened your door. What happened then?”

“I had, of course, expired. Their first task was to make sure that was the case. Once they had, each had to execute her part in the next step of the plan.”

“Owen and Oddingsells must have been ladies of great presence of mind to execute the political plan of a William Cecil, hot on the heels of finding a beloved mistress dead. What is it they were to do?” I asked.

“Owen, having supported Oddingsells through the first sad moments of finding me dead, returned to patrol duty. She was to let no returning servants into the house while Mrs. Oddingsells executed her part of the plan.”

“Which was?”

“Which was to steal out of the house and to a spot behind the stables; there, she would find two men waiting.”

“Two men sent by Cecil?” I asked.

“Correct, Dolly. Oddingsells brought them into the house and then went to join Owen on perimeter rounds while the men performed their task.”

“Which was—I presume—to turn Cumnor into a crime scene. Am I right?”

“Yes, Dolly, you are! Cecil charged the men to make my death look suspicious but not too suspicious; just suspicious enough to make my husband too hot a commodity for the queen to marry but not a hot enough commodity to land him on the block for murder.”

“And so they arranged for you to be found at the bottom of that staircase, neck broken, wounds to the head, and with your bonnet, amazingly, not one whit disturbed.”

“That was Oddingsells’s doing,” Amy said. “Once the two men had completed their work, they got the two women and explained to them what they would find. With that, the men were off. When Owen and Oddingsells went into the house and saw me, I was apparently in quite a state. Oddingsells told me, when later we met in the hereafter, that the sight of my remains so
en dishabille
was quite upsetting to her. So while she and Owen awaited the return of the household servants, they fixed my dress and my bonnet to their satisfaction. Such was not their intention, but as Oddingsells tells it, it had the effect of making my end all the more mysterious.”

“And we know what happened when the servants came home and found you dead. The alarm was sounded, and the rest is history.”

“Yes,” Amy said. “Oddingsells and Owen kept their secrets, and the case unfolded as well as we could have hoped. My husband was implicated and discredited enough not to be able to marry the queen. But he did not suffer any official punishment for my death, of which he was, of course, entirely innocent.”

It was thus that I learned one of history’s most pitiful victims was really one of its unsung masterminds, having outsmarted the great Elizabeth I herself. I was, to say the least, impressed, and I let Amy know it.

“Your doings certainly put paid to the idea that country folk are behind the eight ball, Amy. There was nothing plodding and unassuming about you. Talk about taking the bull by the horns!”

“I don’t know that I’d call Robert Dudley a bull,” Douglas said, pulling her ear thoughtfully. “He could be a randy old goat when he wanted to be. And of course, that is where I came in.”

Chapter Forty-Six

Assumption and Gumption, or A Dame in the Patriot Game